Fingerprints On Glass
by Fey Halfkin
Summary: AU: the writer of the journal is neither famous nor polished, but if one reads between the lines there is more to the unknown author then meets the eye.
1. Tumbleweed

Title: Fingerprints On Glass

* * *

**Many a year was I stretched upon the sea**

**The waves would wash my tears: the wind, my memory. **

* * *

It was the music, live rather then the recorded songs drifting from store doors, which drew me there. I found the repeated chorus the musician was practicing soothing. Not unlike what I would have heard as a child. It came from one of the apartments over many of the shops, so I enjoyed looking at the antiques beneath the open window my curiosity had located. Felt eyes upon me by an older man inside the store, who gave a questioning but inviting smile. Rather then miss the music above me gave a polite hint of a smile and shake of the head to the man. The man would give good-natured looks at me for the next hour as I stood there. Even from the third floor the tune carried strongly to the street.

College students, artists, elderly shopkeepers and visitors waiting between buses were mingling with casual ease. I kept my free hand in my pockets by habit instead of fear of pickpockets. The feel of paper against jeans and fingers a balm to any trepidation. Pictures inside the folded letter, money bills, small scraps of notes...

Faded duffel-bag held by the strings over one shoulder was carried always even here. It blended among the worn/repaired backpacks of the students well enough. So did I for that matter.

Gypsy boy. Carney. Who stepped off a bus with so little in the bag to call his own.

The violin strings eventually stilled. Since I had lost myself in the sound it felt as abrupt as light in a dark room. For a moment I reeled without moving. Brought back from the memories the music and antiques had brought forth. Had to blink green eyes more then a few times, to the concern of the shopkeeper who started approaching the door. Almost, almost, habit started to make me prepare to leave before the older man got there. _Before the growl or shout threatened to attract authority: sometimes waving fists, other times a broom or bat to add their point across. Learning phrases in other languages me and his brothers could later use when cornered by less then friendly people..._

"You alright?" a man's voice asked as the door swung open a few feet to his left. Reflex had me nod a 'yes' even as my eyes focused on the worried face of the shopkeeper. A slight uplift at the corner of the mouth to thank him for asking. I have always preferred few words, both to not betray (by accent or slang) my upbringing and to think things through. So with that small smile I turned to continue down the street of stores.

"Alright. If you're sure. Coming to a stop, half facing back over my shoulder as the man continued. "I just hate to see a rare young man falling down from heatstroke or such."

_Rare?_ "Heatstroke?"

The older man looked at his torso so my own eyes traveled down. Nothing strange was spilt on the green turtleneck: no lint, none of the bagel crumbs lingered. After a thought I realized how the comment fit. Without cover under a clear sky sun for hours should not be done in a warm sweater.

"I had not noticed," I admitted slowly with a straight face that caused the man to gaff in humor. It was the same sound as the youngest brother sometimes did.

"Kids today. Well, why don't you come inside and touch what you've been eying for awhile?" The reminder made my eyes slid past the man to once more look at the store window with concealed regret. There were the picture frames, wooden chairs, trunks, cases of toys/knives/tools, and figurines scattered nicely within. Enticing people to seek some hidden treasures just out of casual sight. Rather then hurt the man's feeling by explaining it was the music that had kept me there I simply admitted, "I can only look."

A sympathetic look gentled the man's expression further. An unwelcome byproduct from the implied 'poor teen' statement I endured patiently. After all it was better then hostility. Rather then further discomfort my new acquaintance I turned fully and joined the man, who opened and proceeded through his shop door. There was a short hall beside the door that lead into a tight hall. A further glance before I too entered the store showed a staircase with a mail-slot shelf.

--------

I wandered the isles with slow deliberation to take in everything on all sides of my path. Admiring the knives (most rusty but salvageable). Smiling at the various dancing figurines tucked between tools and toys upon the shelves. Between customers the man would join me; trying to coax small talk he answered in brief words.

"Not a talker," the man observed without censor even as he would reach over to handle the smaller items studied too long. It was amusing to see how much the older man enjoyed showing his collection of goods off even to a nearly silent youth without the money to buy. Pointing out stories of certain objects, histories and trivia with a prompt candor to many of the items. Many he bought in garage sales during his life so one would think he didn't have much detail about it, but he researched and asked around until he had _something_ about it.

Conner Dalas apparently had traveled the world while working before marrying to an artist. A local lady who was mildly famous in this hometown. They had been running this store for the last four years together (his love) and a small gallery (her love). Not having children they tended to 'adopt' struggling college students. In exchange of free boarding above on the third floor they lent a hand for errands occasionally.

The art gallery was on the second floor, having a wide staircase-porch on the side of the building. I had thought it a small cafe from all the casual groupings chatting on the porch with its chairs and tables. Conner encouraged me into visiting it until I finally made a promising remark about doing so.

I preferred things of history to other creativity, but saw no reason not to give it a look later.

-----

By the end of the day I found myself meeting Mrs. Dalas, discussing my temporary tenancy on the third floor. They were talking between themselves (since I watched in bewildered amusement)while she was locking up the gallery, giving last minute cleaning to tables and clicking off lights with routine ease. If nothing else I was attending dinner with them. Conner had told me that they, "might as well eat while deciding."

Mrs. Dalas was acting as the 'practical/skeptical/need-to-be-convinced' side. Her husband playfully coaxed her in apparent humor she shared despite her expression. Bribing kissing finally winning her over before they had reached their apartment door.

Over wonderful roast beef I gleaned was leftover from yesterday I found myself opening up to the couple. Mrs. Dalas (Andrea, always Andrea. No formality here) acted much as my older sister would. Perhaps that was why I didn't fight Conner's mild manipulation into staying longer then my intended few days. Or it might have been the chance to meet the musician since they'd be sharing the non-bedroom areas such as the bathroom. One of two current tenants.

"One's here on a scholarship," Andrea answered to my inquiry. "He tends to be reading all the time. Why, I've been amazed at the subjects he finds. Just two days ago he was learning the language of flowers since he'd finished the book on Japanese police tactics." I had blinked at the different topics I couldn't fathom how they related. An interesting individual.

"The other is trying to find his own way. Hasn't figured out what he wants to be yet: perfectly natural. Sweet boy too. Always smiling," she said with a sly grin of her own between bites. Her hazel gaze was framed by laugh line crinkles which she used to weigh my ...what I didn't know, but she seemed to approve. A curious glance at the duffel-bag lain between my hiking boots under the table when they settled in their seats. So like the looks older sister would give me when her brothers brought their gear to breakfast that I found a slight smile stayed despite the prying questions the two were asking.

No, I wasn't going to school.

Three brothers, one sister. I did not know where they were.

The family traveled and I had gotten separated from them over a year ago.

I found myself explaining how I had grown up, along with my family, on the entertainer circuit oversea. Seeing the scenes as I described the crowds surrounded the acts: the scent of food vendors mingled with straw and sweat. How everyone moved in cramped caravans that contained both homes and equipment. The hours a day everyone practiced their acrobatics between home schooling and shows. And of course the music played to draw customers, set the mood and impromptu-celebrations backstage to mark moments in life.

I just failed to mention specifics. No names or people given save in abstract: nothing concrete to really track them down. No need for these kind folks to stumble blindly where outsiders were held in wary regard.

"Another musician, huh?" Conner half-stated half-asked. "Then you should get along with Quatre if Wufei doesn't throw those large, heavy, thick books at you. Says it should 'flow' and not 'cough'. Whatever that means. What do you play anyway?"

"Flute."

From there the conversation went to music. Favorite artists, songs, instruments. Conner was more a fan of drums and bass then anything although he liked most styles if it wasn't opera. Occasionally Andrea mentioned 'I was recommended' and 'maybe you know the artist of' but seemed content to remain to the side of the subject.

----

Not wishing to wake or disturb my future room-mates I insisted I was fine for the night. That I could be back tomorrow morning. I simple neglected to where or how.

----

The silent joy of stretching muscles without worrying of what others saw always refreshed me. There is a tension that has nothing to do with nervousness when performing for crowds. When I prepare everything slides away. I did not want to lose my one haven in my travels, so every night I began the routine stretches.

Ankles

Wrists

Elbows

Knees

Back

Shoulders

Neck

Stomach

Sides

Fingers

Then I would fold until my chest rested against my knees, hold it, the shift slightly as knees barely bent. Gravity slowly gained strength as I leaned forward. Shoulder would hit the ground as I rolled. Coming to a standing position, holding it, then bending my back to arch until I could jump my legs back in front of me. Somersaults blended with back-flips and cartwheels: then doing them repeatedly as quickly as I could before attempting to stop at a stand still.

The turtleneck was stuffed in my duffel bag and water from a public fountain drunk. My brothers often told me that during Practice I glowed happiness with only a small smile. Since I now knew the dimensions of my area I could close my eyes.

Sense the two pairs of arms interlocked behind my back where my brothers made a hurdle. Neither would move no matter the inches between them and where I back-flipped over them. Sometimes my knee brushed their bangs in passing. Waiting, arms high in victory as the crowd claps, for the few moments it took them to set up. Younger brother hopped to hand-stand on his older twin, their fingers clasped, as the older twin held him aloft and I bowed to the side and away.

While they continued other displays of strength and balance I joined my elder sister on the high wire.

That night I chose a bike rack to use. A great difference from the rope, but I walked the metal bar with ease enough. Each proceeding foot tested before setting down as I closed my eyes again. Since it was hardly a long length I practiced the fake wobble used to tease the crowd, the baby stepping backward and forward, bending down to straddle in 'rest' before maneuvering to stand again.

There is no slack in the metal as I knew when truly up high. It nearly ruined the memory moment I was creating for myself. For over three hours I practiced every stretch and combination I could recall on that bike rack and ground before slowly winding down. Cooling down muscles with flexible poses held for minutes.

The water fountain both re-hydrated me and splashed upon my skin in a poor man's shower. Hands rubbed down arms, chest and neck: first to rub out any dirt and then to push the water off. My turtleneck was left off to better air itself. Thankful for the warm night I sat upon the curb, duffle between my feet, and practiced the flute in soft tones. Ceased to watch the soft glow of false dawn and don my turtleneck as the world (oh so slowly) came to life.

Connor was surprised to find me standing by his mailbox at 6:30 where I was watching the people nearby.


	2. Meeting

Theme: #1 (Cold hands, cold feet)

* * *

**Music was invented to confirm human loneliness.**

* * *

I meet one of the two new roommates on the way up. Wasn't surprised to see a young man (oriental) doing stretches on the outside patio of the Gallery. Much as my siblings and I would each morning. Difference was he was doing slow kicks, punches, low breathing in such a way that he hardly seemed to move at a glance. Not knowing formal martial training I could not name the exercise/fighting style.

Connor seemed surprised to see him. He got that same look he had given me at the mailbox, although now I saw a back-side angle view of it. My amusement didn't stop me from turning my attention back to the young man who didn't seem to notice us.

The elder twin often had that detached awareness: his younger twin brother working to even greater stealth then a shadow to sneak up on him. My mind's memory could easily add the elder twin next to this youth. Both silent, the one on the high bar slowly turning above the equally slow fighter below.

The tank-top clung to him and bare feet shifted so minutely. Arm muscles defined but not muscular.

Sensing Conner about to try and interrupt I took the two steps needed to motion the universal stop/silence/wait signal by holding the back of my hand up in Conner's sight. Thankful it wasn't taken rudely. From his comment I learned he thought my sense of self-preservation was more politeness. Not knowing how he came to this conclusion I only blinked blankly as Conner then continued to lead me to the next staircase, which lead to the apartment I would be staying it.

I also gathered from Conner's continued comments that Andrea didn't awaken for another two hours to open up the Gallery. That he rose early from long habit. The local college didn't begin until 8, nor did much open before then. Since most of the small shops were run by retiring elders, college employees between classes, I wasn't surprised.

During the dawn nothing but me for miles it seemed. I could almost picture these people tucked away in their homes like wildlife when night hunters were already asleep and the day hunters had yet to stir.

That thought had given me a slight smile by the time we reached the top. The door to the right was open in invitation, or to bring the mourning air in. Conner headed straight for it. I spared a glance to the locked door obviously used for storage (other paintings? Tools perhaps?) a short back flip distance from this door to its neighbor. The two differences to each was the black slipper shoes beside the open door and a heavy padlock on the other.

----

My new temporary home wasn't large unless one had grown up in a trailer with three siblings, which I had, then it was spacious. A common bathroom, small kitchen, living room just big for the couch-rug-TV, and three doors. Two were designed as bedrooms. Those were taken by the musician (Quatre) and scholar (Wufei).

From the names I deduced the youth already seen was Wufei, who did not appear to fit a more French name like Quatre. Not that I could place 'Wufei' to a country or culture.

I was shown the last room. At one time it had been something else. It showed it that the twin bed almost took the whole space, leaving room for a small dresser, with a cramped corner desk and chair. This held more of the crowded conditions I was at home in.

----

It was almost a game the way I went through their kitchen as I awaited my room-mates. Utensils held between fingers, containers and pots nudged by knuckles as I kept my fingerprints off their surfaces. The reason I rarely touched things. My slender fingers were second only to the younger twin when it came to dexterity.

The duffel bag leaned against my left leg, being semi-small and a familiar weight, as I prepared grilled sandwiches. A simple token of greetings. There was little else I could truly do around here.

With the plate of five sandwiches on the table I set to clean the tools I had used. Then sat on a stool, grabbed my flute from the duffle bag. The tune was an embellished shepard song: I imagined wide, green land with nobody else around when I played. Lively. Subtly haunted. My internal haven from memories so long ago I hesitated to recall the years between. While the original was short it was easy to flow into the beginning again to add different embellishments to it.

The soft tread hardly intruded and I didn't bother to open my eyes as it entered. Instead I 'heard' the spoken song the younger twin would sometimes join in.

_ /Look for me at dawning, when the world still lays asleep,_

_Till each dewdrop is kissed by day._

_'Neath the pines and rowans my vigil I'll keep,_

_Every moment your away./  
_

_/The world slowly turns as the seasons change slowly,_

_All flowers and leaves born to wane,_

_Hear my song o'er the lea, like wind soft and lowly,_

_Oh please come back to my arms again./_

It was not easy to recall the light tenor voice I had not heard in so long. I could 'hear' every inflection, each breath between lines he used, but not how he looked when he sang. Only the impression of a memory saying, "He could have been a fey-folk gracing us with his presence." Where he had found this spoken song I had only a guess. He did know many sad or despairing songs. Unable to read he learned them by ear, just as I did with the flute.

_/While the moon slowly slumbers, 'neath the stars I'll weep,_

_For you so long ago, left me behind._

_Memories are slowly fading, those I dearly wish to keep,_

_Our love was so deeply intertwined./_

I did not rejoin the beginning. The tune slowed, softened and faded away. Just like the memory.

----

My heart was numb when I finally meet Chang Wufei. He had finished his routine outside in time to chat with Conner. How he felt about me was unknown. A polite watchfulness was all I saw when I opened my eyes directly upon the owner of the soft footsteps.

The turtleneck I wore didn't help. Being numb left a chill and the ache for family remained.

Like the older twin he gave a slight head bow (neither really nod) in greeting, which I returned with a nod. Expert practice let me pack my flute away without taking my green gaze off him. A hand motion to the sandwiches close to the other stools and Wufei joined me, although he stayed standing.

The silence was neutral and comforting. So like older twin's company I felt the ache inside ease a notch. I used it to study him further.

An oriental jacket now covered the tank top of earlier. A book he had held to his side was set on the table, rim-less glasses donned. When I turned my eyes away without losing sight of him he finally sat across me. We would soon both be reading in silence until a third person joined us.

* * *

Author Note:

Floriography-the language of flowers. This was a huge hit during the Victorian Age for the romantics, especially proper young ladies who had few ways of otherwise flirting. Whole conversations could be held with them. Not only the flower (ie: rose, daisy, ect) but color, cut, which side the ribbon was tied, condition (ie: wilted, fresh), and which hand you gave them.

Has anyone guessed the identities of the twin brothers?

And the poem is "Martain the Warrior", by Brian Jaque.


	3. Decisions

* * *

**"Obsessed with a fairy tale, we spend our lives searching for a magic door and a lost kingdom of peace." --Eugene O'Neill**

**

* * *

**

I know a few people that, when they enter a room seem to make it light up. My second room-mate brought warmth too when he joined us. Or perhaps it was the twin's wards against my skin. As gold-blonde and bright-blue eyed as a Norse child although far from either tall or muscular. His still sleepy eyes gained a clarity as they fell on me even as habit had him greeting Wufei, who gave one in return.

Politely sitting down with us and doing that higher class intro-ing. Took the offered remaining sandwiches as I excused myself before the wards burning against my skin showed on my face. Habit had me grab my duffel. Dropping it at my feet when I sat on the bed given me. Closed the door softly by reaching over before leaning down to search in my bag.

-----

They both left a half hour later to the sound of books gathered, last look at the 'fridge, then steps toward the door. Quatre detoured to give me a polite goodbye from the other side of my door. I returned it (opened to look out) and got that bright smile, less mouth then whole body. Watched him stride off. Listened until both were gone, then tucking my cards away.

By now the wards against my skin were only as warm as a coin on the road. It meant danger, but since it wasn't hot I remained hidden. Silently blessing the twins' help. The younger twin was skilled in hidding things, older twin lending lending his gift to it.

I should have left then. It was now a common response to keep ahead of the hunters. Something about the card spread remained unknown to me, but I have rarely understood my own fate. Others I could piece together. All I knew was change, good or bad, was coming for me.

Was it connected with two room-mates who reflected the twins?

-----

Days passed and routine developed. With the game of Leave-No-Fingerprints to amuse me I would cook a light breakfast of toast and eggs for them: Wufei often practicing his fighting exercise early and Quatre waking nearly two hours later. We all left, them to classes and me with Connor or Andrea. Between the couple and my room-mates doing homework I learned something new every day.

Playing my flute for customers at Andrea's gallery porch was a relaxing way to pass the hours. Sometimes doing quick Tumbling at the park to earn enough change for a future bus ride. There was break-dancing fun from other college teens between classes, a few drama students rehearsing bits, various adult ages doing what Wufei did, very few children escorted by small groups (since their parents/siblings knew each other and kept each other company).

And the nights I renewed the wards around the apartment, sat on the small couch and what Wufei called meditation until morning.

Felt the heart that never varied the calm, slow, steady pace. Lived between the calm, slow, steady breaths I retained even after a hard run. Seeking to recall the comfort of my brothers and sister's close-ness. It was easier with the older twin. Younger twin and older sister enjoyed drapping their arms on us, fall asleep against another even in wide areas, and held no thought to casual touch. Any time or place. I missed that so badly if I let myself dwell on it.

The world doesn't believe outside of science. That both helped and hurt me.

-----

I tested Quatre who seemed to be responding to my wards, or the other way around. The personal wards against my skin always warmed around him. More time near the blonde youth the more they warmed up to him. I mean that to say he stopped setting them off in warning.

The door ward heightened far stronger then I hoped for when he lingered near the frame. My skill dealt in subtle: matching the intensity of the magic touching it. Quatre had them boldly 'shouting' to say

**"I am the mountain's Gate/ the path is barred/ A fortress of a Mighty/ Who is the mountail!"**

Wufei's literature reading inspired that, but the truth it states remains. It no longer calmed me. This was not hiding or subtle. Not that I could ask Quatre to cease encouraging my wards. Couldn't dismiss them or tone them down to compensate since they would be too weak when my blonde room-mate wasn't next to them. I used some of my bus money to buy an old coin from Conner's store, worked two nights to key it, made a leather edge that allowed it to be connected to a necklace chain, then gave it to Quatre.

I presented the necklace to him as a 'friendship' gift. Claiming it was a tradition of my family: not untrue. He beamed that warm smile in thanks, feeling slightly bad he had none in return. After a few words he lost the guilt enough to just enjoy it.

The talisman around my own neck hummed in harmony. Thanks to helping inspire a creative writing homework (inaminate object with life) something came to mind:

_"Hello," called the shy I-Ching coin. "I have known you from before."_

_"Would that I could recall," the american dollar said. "Perhaps then we have already introduced ourselves?"_

_And the two thought upon their chains in silence, for the I-Ching spoke few words and the Dollar was too polite. Upon human hearts they rested. Different countries made, stamped for Fate and gain, one slept to dream while the other watched the night. Not another word was spoke._

-----

There is some envy for my room-mates, who can surrender to rest. Visions of emotions or memories going through their minds for many hours. But there were nights when homework kept them up. They would quietly emerge from their room to find me standing in the dark living room. I could just tell when either was so restless from work or bitter dreams. Those nights I kept from wandering the deserted town streets to give them quiet company.

Younger twin said it was creepy how I sensed these moments: coming from the one who can beat any game of odds, it was amusing.

Wufei drove those nights with books and papers to write and notes re-written/expanded/organized. I gained scant knowledge of his usual choice of reading. There was literature (poetry, mythology, great wars), his philosophy (flower language, colors meanings), handbooks (kendo, chemistry, math, origami step-by-step), and once a library book of a western romance.

To guess what or why Wufei read was something to look forward to each time he brought a book with him. A free gift each day. Something to distract my constant thoughts of what I'd left behind for even a moment to smile to myself.

Quatre did not come out for homework. He would spend all day at school (his classes were few but advanced), but night he emerged to escape his un-rest within his room. His norse blue eyes would be glazed as if he still saw what he didn't want. Fey sight, my elder sister would call it. Haunted, would the twins call it. It was a different hue to our own vision in the mirror.

And sometimes Quatre didn't turn on the light of the living room. In the darkness he slipped to sit on the couch, softly play his violin before quietly starting to cry. The first time I remained still. Unnoticed. Not un-touched. He cried only tears as the bow swung. He would rise and go back to bed two hours later, never noticing me standing aside the window.

Letters from his family, I observed, brought out those nights more then any test. And while I did not touch others easily as half my family did I had other means of expressing. So the second time it happened nearly a month later I would.

His strings sung of sadness in the dark. A frustration, an isolation. The wood felt the tears and echoed them in hushed tones. I knew the tune as I knew my own shadow. My flute was metal with dents as old as I and no stranger to lonely night-time blues. Heavyarms (named after long hours holding it up to practice) skillfully added the proper under tone to the sad sorrow. The family lullabye, a gypsy lullabye, a blues that holds a sad humor that can be uplifting.

He faltered. I copied the absence.

Quatre hesitated to start a few notes, but he did start. My green eyes know well the darkness and the tears on his face now only from earlier still lingered. As his violin broke the silence Heavyarms joined in the same volume. His sad song now curious. My self still and calm as I enjoyed the 'conversation' we found ourselves in.

-----

Four nights later he emerged in the darkness again from his room. It was the first of more such nights. We played: Quatre was more confident in known composures. He must have been fascinated by my improvisions because his eyes sought to find my form as he played.

Wufei gave me unreadable looks the mornings after. But he never mentioned it one way or the other as we passed each other.

-----

My almost four months with them couldn't last forever. Too long I had been sought to make my rooted home forever.

It was the sudden lack of Searching, my wards now seeming dead in silence, that had me inside that night. My dwelling upon the distant beat of my heart wavered in worry. I did not need to lay a card spread to sense the change coming. Calm and soothing breaths, calm and soothing heart beats. Constants that never changed in the year I had last seen my family.

Conner was another Caravan Master to me, and his wife my elder sister. I had two new brothers in my high class room-mates. But that hour of false dawn break something terrible happened. The wards against my skin flared without heat but alarm.

My heart raced.

Air grew thin.

From a distance I felt the panic of senses. Felt flushed skin by muscle memory of terrors, fights and worries. Hands of others gripped me along my body in terror. Demanded my life stay. One set seeking to crush my heart. Too long had I been hunted: they would destroy if they could not collar.

Knew the touch of War, normally cool even aflame, with ruffled wings of destruction to my side.

Knew the touch of Death, who prefered distraction, left his shadows to stand by his bolder brother.

Knew the cry of a shackled Nameless, with tears (knives) given what aid could be given to War and Death.

There are no words in German, English, American, Latin, Russian, Romanian, French, Welsh or slang to describe what I felt that night. How I once more felt my family so close and yet so far again as the faint light in the sky grew. Three words fluttered in my mind. The secret I guarded as only one guarding their soul can. Three protected words.

I must remain Nameless if I was to be free. The name I traveled with was a gift of warding. Few guarded their young with stories of unscientific things. No tales. No charms. No seals taught anymore. It had allowed Them to clip War's wings...

**_/..abandoned half-blood, a living mistake to both war sides. Even small he knew the depth of bloody hell. But despite the hates he held a lonely heart that foolishly gave Them his unprotected words.../_**

... and cover Death's scyth

**_/who held a dying army of forsaken, forgotten. Had the world spit upon the layers of sunken dirt clinging to his skin. Gave words, worthless but shields, for months before betrayal unearthed and erroded them/_**

-----

The coin I had key-ed for Quatre. That was my salvation I found only at the last moment as I felt myself slide away. It had known a trace of my Art. My racing heart was fading with my breath many miles from where I quivered on a couch in the dark.

----

_"It can not be. I can not introduce myself," the I-Ching murmured softly in sadness. "My chain is slipping and I will not know you."_

_"Do not go! Surely if I have time to think I can recall you. Your chain is solid made from the one who crafted my own," the american dollar called. It feared the loss of its kindred. It who recently came to awakening and felt the power of dreams from the heart it lay upon._

_"I can see futures when I touch the ground, but I do not need it now. Too long since I have spoke," the I-Ching sorrowed, the coin tinting from it. "Should I speak I shall shatter."_

_If a coin could cry the american dollar would have. The color brightened as it cried out, "Then do not speak! Let us remember in our silences. Fate you call. Fate you shape. I show gain rather then your heavy burden. My chain is new and strong enough to hold us both!"_

----

My necklace ward was a-light in flame so that I had to ripe it to rest in my palm. It didn't sing the warding song, but one of desperation to match what attacked without success until the pitch rose beyond my hearing. I staggered and fell to the floor.

Another know-touch joined War and Death at my side. This touch held me in the darkness of common sight even as it bathed my fey-sight with light.

Dying. Hands holding hell and heaven, unable to release either.

I had two duties before I could let go: guarding my words from Them, and shielding this new Nameless from Them. Too attached to my room-mate to allow him to be used. Even my enemies didn't deserve it. So I focused thru the pain and Called to War and Death, Nameless and new Nameless. I felt/saw/heard War's angry defeat as he turned clipped wings tight against my skin.

It destroyed what it sheilded, as I had asked. My mind now released from pain to grapple my intentions.

Felt/saw/heard Death's fatalistic humor-loss-hope as he snatched my still Nameless self and heaved it like a boulder where I pointed. The moment I left his touch I was as fragile as glass. Death half-spoke a prayer as he released his wards, his love.

All Quatre saw was me curled on the floor. Muscles jerking. Labored air. He drew back (likely calling Wufei but I had no true sense of these surroundings now) when I suddenly slapped my hand against his chest. Almost pushed him away. Had to curl fingers on his shirt to keep him there long enough for my desperate duty. No time to warn him. My life-force could not be recovered now anyway.

"Gift," I moaned with sightless eyes toward him. His untaught skill thrown in chaos. It was my last word before all strength, depth and life vanished.

True dawn arrived.

* * *

Authors Note: 

Somehow the supernatural has really taken hold of this chapter. Especially at the end. I've been surprised at the words that appeared, the twist that's developed. I know events he only touches since he keeps this journal with scarce details. Now I wonder who's POV will appear to narrate. Well, I'll know by the next chapter. Enjoy!

"..where Tarot or Runes may give you an understanding of your circumstances, the I Ching actually gives you an understanding of your OPTIONS."

"I Ching readings can be challenging to interpret, precisely because they paint a very complete picture of the situation. Notably, each of the 6 lines of the reading describes a specific individual, and the outcome of their endeavor."


	4. Shadows

**

* * *

**

**"Oh breathe not his name! Let it sleep in the shade,**

**Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are laid."**

-Thomas Moore

* * *

There is a reason I rarely write names. To know a name to know it, to control it, to define it. Old cultures believed in warlocks and witches who could snare a soul if given a True Name. The Fey Folk surrounder their powers if one knows what to call them. Some religions think that to call out God's True Name grants them his attention. 

Family name, personal name, nicknames.

It is scary how easily people tell strangers such things about themselves. They tell names and colors at whim. Younger twin listens to all the secrets they spill (as though their gold was glass) and, suddenly, they have lost some fortune. Some weathy trinket is all he takes although he could do more. I watched him swindle them as they cheerfully laughed. Sensed how he shifted their aura, memory and emotion, just by introducting himself.

Not with a real name. Never that. All he does is take their trinket "for a moments delight" then makes himself only a vague recollection. His older twin regards this much as a necessary evil. Keeps him in line with a glare, or my reproachful gaze.

-----

My price is simple. Terrible. Tempting. I had not realized how much I had sacrificed until two nights later. It took that long to pull myself together. With no body of my own anymore (dead despite my siblings stashing it) I now depended on my room-mate for a lifeline. Could feel his striken emotions clearly. Couldn't move or stir as I distantly knew the echo of what events would hurt Quatre further.

My gift, like anything of worth, was a balance.

I have not gone in great detail how unhappy my room-mate was. My elder sister's Art was not needed to sense it. I have not gone in great detail, for it scars my heart, of the loss of my kin. Nor have I told my price that cut me from my own as a doctor may remove limbs.

Elder twin had the talent of making a difficult strategy in moments. Seeing deep in the large picture after pondering was mine. So I had been surprised when I suddenly found a way to tie ends together (for me) quickly.

My gift almost broke my blonde room-mate. I almost faded entirely. Wards shattered upon my death: my necklace ward snapped, the doorframes gained a black-burnt patch of either inside panel, and the one on my duffel-bag saved my few items (barely) before vanishing completely.

----

Since I can't write emotions well I shall simply tell as I saw.

Wufei was trying to calm down a shaken, very confused, blonde at the kitchen table. The day was nothing of note depite how the world had changed. Looking upon my namesake as he cried himself hoarse as I concentrated on my duffel-bag within sight in the living room.

He would need it and I was glad of our small apartment keeping it close.

But what almost took my attention from it was the result of Quatre finally discovering my gift. His voice cracked, blue eyes got impossibly big, and fingers dug into his arms as he finally lifted his head incredulously. I know this despite my sight upon the bag for I know him well.

Chang Wufei didn't understand why Trowa Barton was so upset: why the drifter talked of skipping classes he didn't have. And who was Quatre?

I had torn my new namesake's Talent in my haste to do so much in moments. Using my energy to create bonds, shields, alter the world by replacing. The older twin would handle the computers to complete this. But now the Talent that would have grown was like a nova on his senses. More distracion to confusion.

That was my only regret. Too drained to do more then rest beside him un-noticed.

My new namesake, I'm surprised his heart didn't still from the sudden strain my gift- Talent overload- identity confusion, mix. Wuefei set a warm cup of something in front of him. Checked unsuccessfully for a fever before the hyperventalating drove him to fetching a bag. Over poor blonde's protest the oriental called Conner (I assume from the tone it wasn't Andrea), who must have agreed check in on 'the sick' teen. There was ignoring the different expressions my namesake took as Wufei pulled him from his seat and onto the couch: cordless phone tucked between shoulder and ear as he did so.

An impressive skill I didn't know he had.

The duffel-bag now in reached eased my mind as I rested. A blanket firmly tucked around. A pillow roughly put under his head. Despite he brisk securing of his patient he showed some gentleness. Just like elder sister.

"I'm not Trowa!" my upset namesake denied. I 'reached' to still his voice to what I know was going to be him saying his True Name. My gift wouldn't be for nothing (that heart-ache/loss/void for nothing!) if I did not guard him. Sadly, the sudden lack of voice only added to his distress. Only for a moment did I steal his words. Anymore would hurt him. Instead I focused on trying to calm his Talent.

Matched.

Harmonized.

Calmed.

Gently put 'myself' between his nerves and Talent, keeping an ear on the conversation beyond.

-----

Conner arrived. I felt more then heard his footsteps. While the two talked I was discovering that the Talent influenced my namesake: ruthlessly enforcing the calming to make him sleep. He would need the rest. Then settling against my sleeping... what was he to me? A host? An anchor? Friend?

My gift gave him brothers. A sister. It made him closer then a blood-sworn comrade.

-----

I once read an old fairy tale ("Morals, Superstition And Their Impact On Modern Society" from Wufei) that comes to mind. It was among tales non-graphic in telling. Dry but interesting. And the irony of the situation matches too closely for comfort. I will have to summarize it as I can't locate the library book.

'_There was once a man thought wise and smart, who often thought of distant things. While watching the stars one night he happened to see a neighboring balcony with light beneath the bottom of the doors. He was curious of what was going on since he never had seen signs of life within before._

_So he turned to his shadow and, being faithful and strong in the night darkness, it went to see. It slipped beneath the balcony door but didn't return._

_The wise man grieved for the loss. He also felt shame: all had shadows, even the poorest begger! How could he be wise and well-thought of if he did not? He need not have worried for the shadow grew back. From his shoes a form grew until he had another shadow. But it was too wide in the shoulders, as if it belonged to a worker rather then a scholar. Still, it was a shadow and his._

_Years passed and the wise man fell from high social circles. His clothes got threadbare. Dust collected as he lost any servant. It was then that a vistor came calling. A well dressed man._

_It was his old shadow! The wise man rejoiced in their meeting as he invited the shadow inside to talk. He learned his shadow had found magic that had given him his own body. How, at first, the shadow was too confused to return. Then was curious of the outside (since he nearly disappeared at noon sun) and so left to explore. The wise man nodded in awed interest. Then the well-dressed shadow spoke of meeting a wonderful girl among the noble born. How he was on his way to a party in his honor._

_The man was so happy for his former shadow! His humble companion had done well._

_Then the shadow, in seeming sympathy, invited the wise man to join. At first the scholar declined. There was now a tint of shame for his own lack of fortune. He did not want to trouble anyone. But the well-dressed shadow discovered a solution: he had no shadow (how could he?), so he could say that he was his as he took him to meet the high learned nobles at the party. Friend to friend. It would help both of them._

_Thinking it a good idea (for he longed for such conversation) the wise man agreed. The two went down to a waiting carriage, taken to a manor, then walked among the milling crowd. It did not matter that the wise man wore threadbare clothes or hair barely combed. He was the shadow of the Man this party honored._

_To prove it the well-dressed shadow boasted to his bethrothed's kin that he didn't just any shadow: he was so smart that he left such learned conversation to his shadow. So when they spoke hard questions to the wise man, who answered very well, they congratulated the shadow for having such a learned shadow! The wise man enjoyed the conversations without realizing the ruse._

_His shadow married the noble's daughter, then 'retired' his shadow to a country home where it lived ever after.'_

----

One wonders if the wise man-who-wasn't became a shadow. If the well-dressed shadow became a Man.

It might be my deep thoughts going too deep but the story touched something in me. A tale of change. Magic. Shadows that talked. So when I asked myself what my new namesake was to me my mind comes to this tale. Perhaps too deep a thought. I know younger twin would be talking comparisons/symbolism/brotherly humor at my expense if he knew.

But if I did not know what to call the blonde I knew what to call myself.

His shadow.

* * *

A/N: There is such a fairy tale in, "A treasury Of Hans Christian Andersen by Nelson Doubleday, simple titled "The Shadow". 

A very basic summary, and incorrect at the end. The wise man was outraged about the deception and threatened to expose his former shadow. In the end the shadow won. Married to the princess he became greatly distressed that 'his shadow' thought he was a Man in truth! Since the 'shadow' was obviously mad he was killed. The Court and princess believed the shadow had sent 'his shadow' to the countryside as a merciful lord would an old, ill friend.

A little different then he recalls. :grin:


	5. Accidental Haunting

* * *

**"Look for me by moonlight;**

**Watch for me by moonlight;**

**I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!"**

* * *

Fate was not pleased by the tangle I created. The usual price was technically paid: my life was gone.

Quatre (my namesake now but to me, and thus my journal, remains as I met him) was not idle for long as I built up my strength. He had found the duffel-bag I managed to keep near. It was my last bit of identity and the loss would not have been an small one. For two days he tried to act as the rich student he had been until my gift, while the everyone thought him a talented drifter. I wish I had the ability to smooth his distress.

He found my small pile of papers. When traveling I kept them in my pocket, but I had been here months now and tucked them away. The two pictures the twins studying outside & a childhood photo of me tumbling with Elder sister, a poem in English, two German dollars with scribbles, and a nearly unreadable letter three pages long and folded.

Right now he is asleep. Tossled blonde hair over crossed arms as he fell asleep while studying them. I couldn't help but smile as I went to drape the light blanket over him before sitting down to write this. The small room is dark, and were I given to poetry I might say of writing by moonlight (wrong side of the apartment), or finding solace in the stars (overcast grey tonight), or some other cliche so fondly used. Instead I can't but glance at the rest figure. From the twin bed I lay and divide my attentions to the desk and here.

A relaxing sight between troubled thoughts.

Perhaps writing the thoughts, all ends and explainations, it would clear a course in my mind.

----

There are tales of wonderous things. Fairy Tales. An ironic choice of names since it involves Them.

Changlings were illusions to fool mothers as They stole their children from the cradle. Illustions of logs that dropped a few hours/days later, or a small Fey who would later run away.

There are stories of children raised by Them that became legends: gifted special talents given them.

There are tales of Thier love of a mortal and the children of thier children (and so on) having a sliver of their inhuman heritage. A family cutting the webbing between their fingers after birth: a mark of a silkie woman an ancestor captured and married.

My family believes them all. I've been told how my mother hung charms on my newborn wrists and father carving wards along our wagon. Elder sister often invited the older peers to remember them in song. For delicious soup and two enthralled younglings in audience the older circus hands/gypsy relatives/family friends regalled us with memories. Scattered impressions are all I recall since they died when I was small.

We two stayed with the circus since that was our home. Eldest sister enjoyed the spotlight too much to leave it for the caravan. She loved our aunts, cousins, and kin but couldn't trade in the thrill of performance. At every city stop she would, however, seek for word of them. Years might pass before anything got to us. Visits were rare but large as kin married and added more kin, who joined them happily. I knew more ways to con/distract/bedazzle then more rebelious teenagers by the time I was thirteen. From a cousin-by-marriage I mastered the Tarot Cards to entertain travelers between shows as we flaunted our heritage to city folk drawn to our 'ways'. It helped pay medical bills, education and repairs of our traveling home throught the years.

I do not know what betrayed us.

Somehow, They discovered us.

It has been told to me that there are a rare number of Talents. Humans that, for one reason or another, have a Gift. With fairie gold they bought the circus we lived with. And slowly they trapped us if we did not want disaster to strike those who were all but kin by blood. Our only saving grace was they didn't know our True Names: no hospital record until we were a year old. By then our parents had whispered to us our True Names so we knew it, then gave a Public Name for the paperwork. Standard practice much frowned on. Age old rumors of gypsies stealing babes tainting any dealings with authories even in this scientific times.

There is some magic in our family, and They knew other magicks, and by blood we aged slowly anyway. Unknown ways bound our youth even tighter. Like wood painted with water-sealing it touched us. Changed us.

---

Quatre is shifting his head slightly as if to burrow further in his arms. Had I a better hand I would draw this scene of serenity.

---

For all that They show calm arrogance, I knew there was tension from them. Some purpose involving me and Elder Sister. We both were confirmed when they brought the first of the twins. A silent child that came in the hands of a beautiful (from glamour) woman, who just as quietly handed him to my suddenly protective Elder Sister's wide arms. She almost snatched the child little-younger then me before herding us into the trailer home. My memory is fuzzy of much besides how he shook at loud noises, or slept like a wild-raised cat.

He discovered all Thier compulsion wards.

Was punished for trying to bite one of Their hands. A vague memory says blood was involved, both with him and the Fey. Elder Sister cleaned him just as if it was an accident from training. I boiled the water for the cloths. My sharp hearing has always been too good and the trailer was small: hearing Elder Sister's smile as she whispered an endearing encouragment (which was also a cautionary in the same sentence).

For the first time the spooked youth, who had been our shadows as an extra-hand during shows, gave an expression besides blank or angry. I think it was a dark amusement. Could be wrong. Shortly after he went back to his self-contained personality. Then he took to trailing after Them, stalking them as a street child would a Mark, and his wild cat creeping remained.

We had two months to know our nameless new brother before the second twin arrived.

---

Quatre is dreaming. I can tell as I glance up, but it is not as stressful as it was since he discovered he was my namesake. Before my death I had not seen him sleep so this might have been normal. Still it took only a moment to pause this writing to go to him. Only the twins could sleep at such angles without muscles cramps. He remained asleep as I picked him up to move to my/his bed where he tucked into a ball. Resuming my spot curled against his side.

A childhood comfort to feel someone next to me. Elder Sister was an adult now, elder twin doesn't trust even the younger close, and it has been years since I escaped. I hadn't realized how much I missed it until now.

But if I felt some relief in simplified duties (for the fear of how to eat, where to sleep, how to appear, disappeared to be replaced with guarding another) then the burden fell abruptly on my namesake's shoulder. He feared he was going mad. A veiw sadly enhanced by his worried roommate, the Dalas couple, and lack of 'proof'. Man desires to make a mark that outlives them: his own gone as wind on sand before his eyes. My own attempts to help might have hurt more then healed.

At night, when my new nature was strongest, I would do things. My own nature hated to do nothing for long.

The papers, newsclips, homework that would never be turned in, were put in order upon the small dresser rather then the scattered clutter from confused searchings. Where he left my belongings, now his too, I returned inside the duffle-bag. Ready to be grabbed quickly and away from stray prying eyes. His violin now tucked beside my flute. Times I tucked him in. Once turned off the lights he had left on before dozing off.

And then he awoke from a nightmare to find me sitting at the cramped desk in the corner of the room. I had spread my cards. Calming restless worry I could do little about. Every few minutes pausing to lean back and side for the blonde shifting in his sleep behind. My fingers trying to soothe night-fears with light touches to his hair as one might a cat. Trying to be subtle enough not to startle him awake. Having done this for many nights I did not even look to him as I did so, mind far away.

Were it not for the small space and years with the twins I would have fallen in surprise as my namesake sat up beneath my fingertips. The sound of fear pulled my gaze/mind/head towards it. His norse-blue, wide pinpoints, meeting mine. They became my world just then. A different hue then the older twin's, more kin to the younger twin's for all they were different colors all together, and opposite my regarding green. My namesake's gift bound me further to him without effort. Had I my own body my lips would be blue by now.

Comforting wasn't my best skill. Nor was he, seeing a ghost, willing to let me touch him again. And I couldn't answer the half-formed stammered questions he chocked out through his terror. I was helpless to do anything. Just sit still. Willing him courage to steady himself.

Time has always been lucid to me. My namesake treating me as a ghost, or sign of his insanity, and I couldn't blink for fear of breaking his fragile recovery. But my eyes stretched wide as he started convincing himself of scientific reasonings (some words I knew from Wufei's books of how the mind worked while most might as well be a lost language). Heart beat that never varied, although I lacked the body, pounded louder to the constant pace. I felt my very spirit shrink inside me as my namesake started to laugh as those going mad would.

No way to touch him, only hurting, as it now hurt me, for I stood as a shield before him, I fled instead. Opened the door more from habit then need as I raced outside. Where cool air wrapped around me. Where our ills weren't smothering us in a box and I not adding to his hell.

---

My feet raced to the Park, a settled sancuatary since my arrival, without the aid of my eyes. It wasn't until I came to a halt (panting, crying) and reached a hand to wipe my face that I noticed the duffle-bag habit had grabbed. I laughed. If his had been of a madman, mine were of a ghosts.

I had risked everything only to see it slipping away.

There was no real tears trailing down my face to the ground, for shadows cannot, the feeling of doing so remains. I learned my new nature still let me feel a heart shattering. That chocking sense of air and water in the throat. Shivering wracked me. Only being unable to control a fall as muscles trembled, my mind blanking, kept me standing. The duffle-bag anchoring me. And as morning light drew closer I howled as if to summon my brothers to me.

With the light all shadows waned. Finally I collapsed.

Spent

Alone

---

The I-Ching coin was shattered, and the American Dollar could no longer see it. Pieces hidden in the envelope as its owner had gathered them. With each piece gathered the hand became translucent. Three fragments. Now the older coin's worth reduced to mere metal of three small bits. And the hand that had crafted its chain, and given it life, seemed to pause. It heard the stunned American Dollar's incoherent heartwish. A long moment passed as it held the last bit in the palm with deliberation.

Then if curled into a fist, a knuckle giving an affectionite stroke in passing to the American Dollar, it vanished.

* * *

Author's Note: been busy with RL and not very creative, but keep coming doggedly back to this story. The quote is "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes. More details and less rambling next chapter. 


	6. Seizure

* * *

**"That is the saving grace of humor, if you fail no one is laughing at you." -A. Whitney Brown**

* * *

I have had little time to write since that night. The chants, wards, ever watchful EYES, mental turmoil, curses, talks of bloodlines, and the oh so fragile namesake I carried mixed with buses, passports, money, hotels, a near arrest in Austria, and various odd jobs to further transportation.

Truly this is the first time in nearly two months I've been able to escape the persistent gaze of the mage. He is hardly a trusting soul of me. Not that I blame him but I prefer to blend, forgotten, in the background. Having everything questioned with winter-night-ice eyes would have tried even the older twin's patience after 24/8. My inner reminder that he was devoted so well to my namesake patched the fraying calmness somewhat. Still it was rubbing raw before a fortnight.

Backing up.

My duffel-bag, and thus me, were returned to the apartment early in the afternoon. It was Wufei who received it. He put it in his room (nearly twice the size of the third spare one I'd had) while I watched my namesake leaning against a motherly Andrea Dalas upon the couch.

The norse-blue eyes were slits surrounded by red and shadows: he hadn't slept much last night either apparently. Fair hair wasn't tussle for fashion, nor holding any shine. I was just too numb to feel. I honestly believe heart shards melt into tears before turning into air. Even for a shadow.

Knelt at my namesake's feet to better judge his health (a stranger's detachment), ignoring his tense, subtle recoil. In respect to his state they had dimmed daylight with light curtains. It made me more 'real' to my namesake. His free hand grasped the blanket they'd draped over him while he hastily handed his plastic glass to Andrea with the other.

Exhaustion.

High strung.

Beginning to be malnurished.

Instinctive and reflexive rather then mentally alert.

If he would not/could not care for himself then I would have to soon. Perhaps I had been too cautious. Too gentle? This was all too new for one without a guide. My common sense had stories and old magiks for hands. All I had left was duty to my namesake. And it was so much calmer not to hope with a heart (I'd longed for a friend-companion on the journey) to think most clearly. The constant heartbeat was distant enough to ignore now.

----

I should explain a bit of my Gift.

A new spell combined of others that boarded on curses. Possessions. Soul-bindings. I had destroyed a life (my own) to bind the spirit to another. Burnt the fey's Preservation that had made me near immortal (although only in age. Not health or accidents) to keep my gift/name/self. My namesake might live longer, age very well, but remained more mortal then I or my siblings.

And if my Talent was subtle, blending, then my shadow Self could be as iron handed as the older twin's will. It was a curse. I could take his body as my own. His life-span mine. A mere change of form to one that held my history as his own. Damn him as another distant heartbeat somewhere in my mind.

Each word now spoken would take a bit of life. Seconds, minutes, days, years .. there was no way to tell. My nature of silence served me well in caring for my namesake. The younger twin would have died many times over by now: Death preferred the sound of his voice. If, however, I took his body I could freely talk again.

Fate it seemed had a sense of humor.

But his Talent, from what I could tell when he set of my wards, was different. Having my soul bound to him boosted it to a dangerously strength for one untrained. I have no name yet for him. I knew my own (buried, guarded beneath nightmares) linked to my true name. But for him to so drastically affect mine signaled it was a kin to it. And if I could not talk to him to teach him then I needed to go to ones who could.

------

Not impressed with his health (and feeling searching eyes) I took hold of his knees and 'pushed' myself into flesh. Blood streams. Bone ridges. Skin horizons. A heartbeat that sounded like a gale around me. Air and breaths that could not make me as light as a shadow had been but trying, oh it tried. Something pushed aside as I sought, me? balance?, clawing my way back to reality.

I would return to a frenzy around us. Andrea's shrill voice and Wufei's instructions as the world slowly settled down. On my side with a headache upon the floor.

And my namesake's mental screaming behind my eyes.

**Seizure: _noun _  
**

**3) a taking possession of an item, property, or person legally or by force.**

**4) a sudden attack, as of epilepsy or some other disease.**

**[ Random House Unabridged Dictionary)  
**

For sanity I left all thoughts aside to 'ride' the confusing sensations that surrounded me. Grabbed the drowning man in my mind much as younger twin did mine or sister's after a troubling visit from Them: hands framing our faces to lock into his concerned eyes until he saw we were strong again. Careful to hold but not harm as he struggled and screamed and cut me.

I concentrated on that while others handled (his? my? our?) seizure upon the floor. I can picture how they called an ambulance, cleared objects like the chairs away, and uttered prayers, curses. In a few minutes I would go limp and 'wake up' again to sore sensations. Questions weren't answered but I did focus my eyes -no longer green but blue now- on those addressing me. Blinked a few times. Even gave a wane smile that did not seem to reassure them any as I continued to calm an equally weary namesake.

Cradled my namesake.

Crooned to my younger ward.

Rocked my own to resting.

And he was too confused-weary-in shock to fight me long from the comfort I forced on him. Long ago I had done this to a far younger older twin when he starved for connection despite his aloof wildness. Took injury to allow sister to also embrace the small waif before he was a twin. How could I do less then protect my own ... whatever Quatre was to me.

From the look Wufei was giving me I must have hummed some aloud. He stayed by our side as medics came and took me to a hospital. Black asian eyes watching us intently. Concern flashing through them. They would turn to fury when the hospital found out we had no insurance, checked us over, advise we see a doctor, and released us within the hour. The sounds of his rant made me smile even as I left to walk the five blocks back to the apartment. I used the time to adjust to flesh different from one honed by years of performance or travel. To take in fresh air as if it was more refreshing then perfume. A smaller viewer of the world, with smaller stride.

A furious and frazzled Wufei found me at an outdoor bench of a deli. That was to start caring for this body. Besides, I was hardly hiding from him. Or the Dalas' who were apparently called to help search for me and would take us back to the apartment (one block away) in their car. I had not been so roundly scolded since the day older sister discovered me provoking a group of drunk soldiers.

But even as they fussed in settling me down I felt searching eyes.

And I finally found it from where once things quieted down: Wufei's black gaze. Somehow my already dwindling time remaining here was over. As the younger twin once quoted, "time to get outta Dodge." One understands the context, if not the reference. Calmly I watched the Dalas' couple until they left me in my roommate's care two hours later. I knew I'd miss them.

I dozed for a time. Then, in the dim lite darkness I slowly pushed the blanket off with a soft SLEEP chant, packed his and my things (thankfully still heart-numb and too focused to grieve for the tarot cards destroyed), and walked out the door and down the street. My watchful roommate should sleep for many hours yet. Enough for me to put miles between until I could find a running bus line.

----

Muscles unused to such a workout pulsed, twinged and strained by the time I sat on a bus. And if my namesake tried anything behind my eyes I didn't notice as I finally slept. My duffel-bag held on my lap so I could curl atop it in a makeshift pillow that guarded against thieves. Tired enough to not become too annoyed of the hard cases within.

----

I Dreamed in three.

_Hair of light gold flashed as if turning away from me while the details remained vague. There was the back of the fair haired Fey, clothed in bright finery, standing with gloved hands folded behind. And were I to look about I knew it would be a glimpse of heaven. Centuries of perfecting artists, guided by magic and devotion, were highly prized among near immortals. So I kept my attention (truly there was little choice) upon one who guided the thread of my fate._

_A War God waiting with infinite plans._

_A King who held a sword rather then a scepter. _

A conversation, different from the vision, clearly spoke just beyond my eye-corner sight. Upon awakening I lost the words if not the feeling. Four of them. I recall the number confused my frightened wits. And I knew them. Knew them even if in dreaming I did not think their names. (Oh I had guarded my own so long even my dreams!) Recalling only their number and that it had been important. None of them were the fair haired Fey. Or talking to him.

And in Dream the feeling of water surrounding me. As if my skin carried the memory while I Saw and Heard other things. Tugging me down as if sinking in a pool. Drowning. No will to move from the relaxing current that brush me. Swaying my hair like a caress.

--------

The mage found me while I was in the bus station's restroom, trying to wipe the cold sweat away with lukewarm tap water. I call him this to better guard his name (old habit). Only moonlight can show these words but one never knows when outrunning Them...

He had startled me in the mirror only a moment, a blur, seeing but uncomprehending, before slamming me against the wall with a force. What he did to deter the two other men there I don't know. But my world narrowed to the steel grip pressing me. The soft voice growling in my ear for an explanation. _Who was I? What was I?_

That heartbeat of my namesake's body hammered: relief that it wasn't Them, fear of the threatened harm to 'us'. Wondering at the implications of the questions. Such reading between words is one reason I say so little. Of course, I deducted much when the mage started a soft chant while pressing me tight enough to cut my breaths. A mixed blessing. No public restroom smelled good up close in one's face.

I saw spots before he hustled me out of there. People were around. I sensed them, brushed by them. I just was too busy gasping and keeping my feet beneath me to note more. Felt him (spit on me?) while chanting in a low voice that I couldn't make out. Something slipped on my left wrist that pulsed but a moment. My body suddenly choosing a bench to collapse on without my consent/thought. The mage sitting almost tightly beside me as he continued, then ceased, his chanting. I will forever thank the twins for my next reflex, because dazed/heart racing/threatened I was one who knew the fights when boys ganged up on us carny-kids. My two street-raised siblings drilled more dirty trick reflexes then traveling could have.

First the elbow to the head.

The other hand flat-edged a push that, if lucky, could break ribs or sternum.

My vision was returning enough that I made a sudden dash off the bench. Or I tried. I had pissed off a trained fighter apparently 'cause he reacted enough to trip me, then sit with a knee in my back. This would lead to security coming and breaking us up. I mentioned to them about my duffel-bag (my lack of it distressing me) still beneath the sink. A good thing for the mage. If someone had taken it I would have mete out all sorts of frustration upon a former friend's body. The rent-a-cops didn't read such thoughts from my calm, if scrapped, expression or I too would have been handcuffed.

The annoying part was proving it was mine. My wallet lacked any photo ID. They couldn't open it without owner permission, which I couldn't prove unless they looked within, and other exasperating regulations that hindered in keeping my temper.

When they finally released me with my things I found the mage waiting. Standing in an attempt at casual that did not suit him. Crossed arms were more likely to keep from harming me further as he attempted (give credit) a more diplomatic approach. When I got on the bus he followed. Still trying to make me confess.

I could read worry for the soul of the body I wore. It amused me a little. Enough to smile, with the large band-aid on the cheek arching a bit. I could read fury at my trespass, shielded by my namesake. And what gave me my only headache was the fluttered fright of my namesake's soul convinced I would harm his friend and thus pushing to escape.

_Who was I? _Perhaps a proper introduction, I said. Gave him my name/ our name: gifted to my namesake to be his now. The mage was not as amused. He accused me of lying, which I wasn't.

_What was I?_ I told him in quiet tones, looking out the dirty bus windows, my titles. 'Tumbler, performer, traveler, brother, orphan, player of Heavyarms, once a guest of the Dalas' and Park wanderer'. I listed my namesake's titles. Felt Him listening behind my eyes as if understanding verbal words rather then emotion. 'Student, son, music maker in the dark, sun-touched, a true friend to all.'

And because he was my and His friend ended with, "and gifted with a Soul."

Then I ceased speaking altogether. Just shut norse blue eyes, head and shoulder leaning against the bus window. Desperately wished to dream. Afraid to Dream again. Ignoring the annoyed huff mingled with pages flipping beside me. And I must have slept with my namesake's blessing for I swore the sounds of a violin lulled me to resting for the first time in a week. That familiar, soothing song He seemed to love so dearly.

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry to take so long. Hopefully he wasn't too emo-angst, but he's such an introspective guy. I promise that next chapter will have more details. For those loyal fans who enjoy this I would love to hear what you'd like to see: quote, scene, explanation, ect. 

Anyone guess who the mage is?


End file.
